


Homecoming

by DrJekyl



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Gen, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 04:15:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3235904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrJekyl/pseuds/DrJekyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aethyta learns her parents really hadn't been joking after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

She wasn’t at the morgue for more than thirty minutes.  Just enough time to identify the bodies for the bored attendant, sign the paperwork and collect their junk.  And it was junk, their stuff.  Ma’s leathers were completely shot to shit and her custom Igniter had burned itself out during the fight; Dad’s armour and sidearm weren’t any better.  The only things worth keeping were Dad’s Growler, a beast of a shotgun she struggled to lift, and their bonding bracelets, which might actually be worth something if they were solid platinum like Ma had claimed and not just plated like Aethyta had long suspected.  Somebody - probably either the morgue attendant or whoever had found them - had already lifted whatever credits they’d had on them.

Not that there’d be much.  There was never much.

There wasn’t much to their apartment either, once she found it.  A dinky one-bedroomed flat whose only notable feature was a kitchen large enough to serve a squad of krogan, it was at least far enough away from the slums that she didn’t have to worry about some idiot being stupid enough to try to mug her.  Not that someone toting a shotgun half the size they were would ever be a good prospect for that, no matter how hard up you were.

The shotgun went in the rack by the door, next to a battered old sniper rifle Ma was probably in the middle of restoring.  Closet thing she had to a hobby, really, outside of the Arena.  And at least it had brought in a steady supply of credits - unlike anything Dad did except fighting.

The big payday would come one day, they’d always said.

She pulled the bracelets from her pocket to put them down on the kitchen counter.  They jangled in her hand. 

She was shaking.

Was it shock?  It felt like shock.  Shaking, shivering, light-headed, the world all at once weirdly distant and far too close, pressing down against her skin.  The air, too tight in her lungs. 

They hadn’t been joking after all.  Goddess, _her head had been half gone_.

She made it to the sink just in time.

It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen dead bodies before, even ones shot all to hell.  Occupational hazard, when you were the daughter of mercs.  But it was different when it was someone you knew.  When it was your own damn parents.  _Her head had been half gone_.  And Dad - it took a lot to bring down a krogan.  Grenades, maybe, or even a rocket.  They were supposed to love each other, for fuck’s sake!

A hammering at the door made her head jerk up.  Not an ‘is anybody home?’ knock, but ‘I know damn well you’re in there and you’d better open the fucking door’ pounding.  Someone must’ve watching the place or the morgue to see who showed.  Fuck.  Couldn’t she even get five damn minutes?

She spat to clear her mouth, wiping it clean with the back of one hand.  With the other, she felt down the cabinetry until she found the handle for the second cutlery drawer and pulled it open. Good old Dad - the Singularity was there, just like always. Had a kick like a lovelorn elcor, but it’d take down anything short of one in a hit or two.  And thanks to Ma, the extra heat-sinks meant you actually had a chance of getting in more than two before the barrel melted.

She flicked the safety off, but left it there, for now.  It was only then that she punched up the intercom on her omni:

"Fuck off!  I’m busy."

"Open up kiddo."  The amused, flanging tones of a female turian.  "We don’t mean you no harm but we’ve got some debts to settle and we’re going settle them."

"One way or another," a second voice added, equally amused.  Hard to tell what it was - could have been batarian, or quarian, or even another asari with an odd accent.

"I’ve got no debts with you," Aethyta replied.  "Got no debts with anybody."

She’d worked damn hard to make sure that was the case.  She'd seen where debt led people.

"Well, your daddy had some debts, sweet tits," the second voice said.  "Now that he’s dead, that makes them yours.  That’s how inheritance works."

Sweet tits.  She rolled her eyes.  Definitely asari.

"So send me a bill-"

The door slid open.

An asari, a turian and a quarian male, the latter wearing a smug smile as he closed down his omni-interface.  The malice, the muscle and the tech, respectively.  As a unit, they strode into the apartment, spreading out so she had trouble keeping all of them in her line of sight.

"We _are_ the bill,” the asari said, teeth flashing white against navy lips. 

Commando leathers, but poorly-fitting.  Tight across the shoulders, too long in the arms.  Pistol at each hip - poor biotics?  Or none at all?  Either way the leathers’d hamper her.  Warp rounds in the guns, probably, but they were Silencers, low-cal and barely a step above a midnight special.

Aethyta’s fingers brushed the cool metal of her own pistol as the door closed behind the trio.

"So," she said, "this is a shakedown." 

The turian shook her head, a good approximation of the asari gesture.  Better armour, but no guns.  Probably not a biotic either, but long, lethal talons - hand to hand?  She’d have reach and strength and Aethyta wasn’t wearing any armour, but the turian’d have to get in up close to do any damage, and she’d probably be in for a surprise once she did.  Not many asari went for close-quarters fighting.  Ma and Dad had made sure she learned for just that reason.

"Not a shakedown, kiddo.  A friendly visit."

There was a knife block on the counter.  Couldn’t vouch for how sharp they’d be, but they’d probably do some damage regardless.  And the block itself looked pretty heavy.

"It’d feel a lot more ‘friendly’ if it was only one of you."

"Wasn’t sure of the reception we’d get," the quarian said with a smile and a toss of his hair.

Young.  Sub-machine gun - a good one - but no armour.  Nice clothes.  Probably from money.  So probably either a running damn good tech shield or just a really arrogant son of a bitch.  Good odds of a drone or two as well.  Drones weren’t that great in a confined space like this, but that gun’d tear up the counter, no problems.  And her with it.

The turian paused by the vid screen to caress a holoframe on the shelf there with one long, sharp talon.

"Your parents had something of a reputation, you understand."

Well, that explained the overkill.

"They had a reputation for paying their debts, I know that."

"I know.  That’s why the boss has decided to give you a discount."  Again the white flash of teeth.  "Circumstances being what they are."

"How much?"

"Two hundred thousand."

"Two hund- Two hundred _thousand_?!  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

"It could have been five.  The full amount."

"Shit.  I don’t have that kinda cash."

Her folks’d be lucky to clear that many credits in a decade.  How the hell did Dad lose that much money?  Why had Ma _let_ him?  Was that was part of the reason why Aethyta’d had to come here to claim two bodies?  His gambling had always set them at odds, at least when he was losing.

"They must have left you _something_ ,” the quarian said, idly inspecting the weapons rack beside the door.  He ran one bare finger down the Growler and sniffed. “I’ve never known a matriarch to not have a little nest egg hidden away. I’m happy to help you look.”

…or maybe Dad hadn’t lost it at all.  Maybe this _was_ just a shakedown, seeing what they could get out of a poor kid who wouldn’t be thinking right.  The timing fit.  Get her while she was still shook up.

"Well, I guess she might’ve," she hazarded.  "I only just got here.  Haven’t had a chance to look yet."

"If they haven’t left enough to cover the full amount," the other asari sat down on the battered couch with a proprietary air, crossing her legs. "Well, heard you were a dancer.  Sweet tits like you, you could always come work for us until the debt’s square. Ystara _does_ like her dancers.  Maybe if you’re good enough you could even pick up some other work on the side.”

Aethyta’s heart started to race.  They were working her.  They were _working her_.

"I won’t run drugs and I don’t sell my ass for anything other than lookin’ at."

If she stayed, that’d be it.  They’d take her for everything she had, probably try to get her hooked on Grey7 or Sweet Release, and in two decades she wouldn’t know her own damn name.

"Who said anything about that?  The boss has a lot of business interests.  Honest work for honest pay."

If she ran, she’d have to run now.  Before anyone realised.

"What kinda work?" she asked, trying to feign as much earnest interest as she could.  "You’re right - I can dance a bit. I can tend bar too.  I’d want to make things right."

"Not much need for bartenders," the turian said, looking over her shoulder at the asari.  Aehyta could imagine the smile.  "but I suppose we _do_ always need more dancers-"

Ma had made her practice shooting from the hip until she’d damn near turned the gun on her.  Her fingers twitched, her arm snapped up and the quarian’s head exploded, splattering the wall behind him in gore.  Her next shot, at the other asari, went wide from the recoil, but it was enough to send the shocked maiden diving for cover.  The turian’s head whipped around to follow her move, buying the time Aethyta needed to vault the counter.  She swept up the knife block as she went, flinging it whole at the turian the moment her feet hit the ground.  The turian, turning back to face her, ducked instinctively, too late, and Aethyta snapped up the gun and squeezed off two more shots that punched clean through her armour and the centre of her body mass, shattering the low table behind her.  Two down.  She fell back onto the shards of glass.  That just left-

Aethyta brought her barrier up just in time.  It flared as the first round struck and collapsed with the second - fucking warp rounds - but by then she was moving again, summoning her concentration to reach out and create a tunnel of space to close the distance between herself and the other asari.  The charge was barely more than a flash-step, covering just a couple of metres, but it was still enough to detonate the other maiden’s weak barrier, knocking her back against the wall and momentarily stunning her.

Aethyta’s punch took her full in the throat before she could recover, with a wet sound and the awful crackle of cartilage collapsing.  The maiden collapsed too, to her knees, clawing futilely at her neck as her skin started to darken, chest heaving with the effort of trying to breath.  Her bulging eyes met Aethyta’s, pleading.

She was young. Impossible to pick her exact age, but a maiden like her, somewhere between a hundred and one-fifty, adult markings just starting to come in but a smattering of remaining juvenile ones still across her cheeks, imperfectly obscured beneath navy gang tats.  Somebody’s daughter, niece, sister, aunt.  Somebody out there was going to get the news she’d been killed, have to come over to this shitty excuse for a station and go through her things.  Maybe take her home, to someplace better, to be buried with her kin.  Or maybe there wouldn’t be anyone.  Maybe she was alone too, and that’s how she’d ended up being a low-level thug for some scumbag who probably wouldn’t give two credits if she died.

And she did die, while Aethyta stared at her, rooted to the spot, her skin going grey, lips black, eyes open and staring and bloodshot before her body finally went slack and she fell forward.  When Aethyta turned, there was the turian, lying in a pool of blood and ichor on the floor, one hand futilely pressed over a gaping wound in her carapace, eyes open and lifeless.  By the door, the quarian, slumped over, his head half-gone.

She didn’t make it to the sink this time.  Her knees gave and her stomach heaved and heaved and heaved until she had nothing left to bring up, not even bile.  The fight hadn’t even lasted a minute and she’d killed three people.  People who had names, had homes, probably had families.

Three people who’d come here to kill her, one way or another, to clean her out and make her a slave in all but name.

It didn’t ease the sick feeling in her gut, but the thought was enough to get her clumsily back to her feet.  If she was going to run, she had to do it now.  And she had to run, because she’d just killed three people.

Goddess, it had been so _easy_.

She staggered into her parent’s room first, to find a couple of duffle bags and a battered old backpack.  Ma had some old leathers - proper commando gear - that could probably be made to fit her or be sold for a decent amount of credits. It and spare ballistics plates got shoved into one bag, along with Ma’s spare helmet, rebreather and tanks.  Dad’s spare armour was too big to fit and too heavy to carry for long, so she left it in favour of more of ma’s stuff: jackets, gloves, a tactical harness, boots and a bandolier.  Cleaning gear.

Into the backpack she stuffed the bedroom’s terminal and whatever datapads she could find - never knew what they’d have on them.  Ma’s jelwery and medals went too, along with Dad’s rings and clan-tokens, and anything else that looked valuable.  Some more clothes on top, to stop everything from rattling: a couple of nice suits from the closet and the fur-lined leather-jacket Ma took on cold-weather jobs, covered with campaign patches.  What else did she need to grab?

She was caught short by her own reflection when she ran into the bathroom to look for the emergency med-kit.  Deathly pale, eyes red-rimmed, snot dribbling from her nose, vomit on her shirt: she was a mess.  A scrawny, scared kid whose hands shook as she turned on the faucet to try to clean herself up.

Goddess.  What had she been thinking?  This wasn’t going to work.  Some sniveling whelp with too-heavy bags and a pressing need to get the hell off the station? She’d be way too easy to spot, no matter how much she tried to clean herself up.  Shoulda stayed, played dumb, played nice and made a break for it when she’d had some time to prepare.  Stupid.  They wouldn’t have drugged her straight away.  Probably.  How long did she have before someone came looking for the missing crew and found three dead bodies?

She plugged the sink and let it fill.  When it had, she plunged her face into the cold water, holding herself there until her lungs screamed and her teeth ached.  It helped, a bit.  Her heart felt less like it was going to hammer itself out of her chest, and some colour came back to her cheeks.  And when she dried herself off and opened the cupboard to grab the kit, she found Dad’s war-paint beside it.

Some asari mercs went in for war-paint, she knew.  Even Ma did, sometimes, when they were working with a merc company and she needed to show their colours but didn’t want to get her tats redone.  And it wasn’t hard to do.  What was the pattern for Obsidian?  Lotta asari in Obsidian.  A single purple stripe beneath both eyes, across the bridge of the nose.  Two more short ones but thick, covering the corners of the lips, meeting to make a V just beneath the chin.  Four bold stripes of white, just finger-width apart each, along the outer crests.

When she examined herself in the mirror again, she looked different.  Not older, certainly, but a lot less like a scared kid who’d been crying and more like a merc maiden who’d spent the night out on the town blowing paycheques her liver couldn’t cash.  Merc maidens were as unremarkable as fleas on a varren, and, to hear Ma and Dad say it, about as useful.

It felt wrong, to wear Ma’s leathers in their bedroom, but she struggled into them anyway, pulling each buckle tight to hide where the material hung lose on her frame.  The boots and gauntlets fit at least, and the tactical vest was easy to adjust.  That just left the guns.  There was another pistol in the dresser, which clipped neatly at her hip, but everything else was still back out _there_.

The living area stunk when she dumped the bags in it, bad enough to make her stomach threaten another heave.  Blood and bile and shit, fried electronics and ozone hung heavy in the air.  Three dead bodies.

She ignored them for the gun rack by the door, splattered with the quarian’s blood.  The Growler she holstered on her back, the sniper and assault rifles she packed down into their cases which went into the spare bag, along with cleaning gear and mod packs.  It was hard not to keep looking at the quarian, slumped against the wall, his head half-gone.  The asari, face-down on the floor, seemingly unmarked save for the growing stain where her bladder have given way.  The turian, lifeless and staring in a pool of blood and ichor that was starting to congeal.

But the more she looked, the easier it got, until she actually worked up the nerve to relieve the quarian of his sub-machine gun, the asari of her pistols.  And then their credit chits.  The quarian’s omni and his two little drones.  It all got crammed into the duffle.

Ma had never wanted her to be a merc, and certainly not the sort to loot dead bodies.  She’d wanted Aethyta to go to university one day, and spent too much of their money on distance schooling out of the T’Olritz Academy on Thessia itself so she’d have a good grounding in the classics to do just that.  Her disappointment had been harder to stand than Dad’s punishment PT course that time they’d caught her running with Five Sisters, a two-credit gang moving guns through Sunbeam Station.  Not that Dad had cared about education much. He’d just thought the Sisters were dishonourable scum, and was probably right.

She’d thought about mercing, when she’d left home.  There was no denying she was a good shot, and she was good at close-quarters and biotic stuff too if she had to.  Proof of that was splattered in red and purple around the flat.  But thinking of Ma, and what Ma had said about what the odds of making it were, all the friends she’d lost along the way, Aethyta’d gone for customer service instead.  She'd moved into dancing when she found it paid better than serving food or selling clothes, and that you were allowed to hit the customers if they got too mouthy or handsy.  As a dancer, though, she was never going to be anything but a warm-up-act; maybe mercing was something she could actually be _good_ at.  She had the gear now.  And it wasn’t like there was anyone left to care if she became another statistic.  Ma and Dad were it.  Had been it.

Nobody batted an eye at her as she shouldered her bags and left the flat, headed towards the mag-lev station as slowly and nonchalantly as she dared.  A scowl was all it took for commuters to make enough space for her and her bags on the carriage through the financial district and then down to the docks, just like a real merc.  And it wasn’t that hard to add a bit of a ‘don’t fuck with me’ merc swagger to her walk as she hoofed it down towards the freight terminals.  She really wasn’t to be fucked with, after all.  She’d just killed three fucking people.

It wasn’t until she was bargaining for passage to that she realised she’d left the bonding bracelets behind.  The two platinum rings on the counter, linked.  She hadn’t taken the holos of the three of them either, or any of her baby stuff, or the arena trophies they’d won as a family.  Just the guns, some clothes, some proof of her lineage and some stuff she could sell.

Maybe it was better that way.  Maybe, some things should just be left behind, like they’d left her.  If they could kill each other, they could damn well blasted into the sun together without her being there to watch.  That part of her life was over.

When the time came to board the freighter, she didn’t hesitate, and she didn’t look back.


End file.
